Six weeks have now elapsed since Miss Milner has been in London
partaking with delight all its pleasures, while Dorriforth has been
sighing with apprehension, attending to her with precaution, and
praying with zealous fervour for her safety. Her own and her guardian’s
acquaintance, and, added to them, the new friendships (to use the
unmeaning language of the world) which she was continually forming,
crowded so perpetually to the house, that seldom had Dorriforth even a
moment left him from her visits or visitors, to warn her of her
danger:—yet when a moment offered, he caught it eagerly—pressed the
necessity of “Time not always passed in society; of reflection; of
reading; of thoughts for a future state; and of virtues acquired to
make old age supportable.” That forcible power of genuine feeling,
which directs the tongue to eloquence, had its effect while she
listened to him, and she sometimes put on the looks and gesture of
assent—sometimes even spoke the language of conviction; but this the
first call of dissipation would change to ill-timed raillery, or
peevish remonstrance, at being limited in delights her birth and
fortune entitled her to enjoy.
Among the many visitors who attended at her levees, and followed her
wherever she went, there was one who seemed, even when absent from her,
to share her thoughts. This was Lord Frederick Lawnly, the younger son
of a Duke, and the avowed favourite of all the most discerning women of
taste.
He was not more than twenty-three; animated, elegant, extremely
handsome, and possessed of every accomplishment that would captivate a
heart less susceptible of love than Miss Milner’s was supposed to be.
With these allurements, no wonder if she took pleasure in his
company—no wonder if she took pride in having it known that he was
among the number of her devoted admirers. Dorriforth beheld this
growing intimacy with alternate pain and pleasure—he wished to see Miss
Milner married, to see his charge in the protection of another, rather
than of himself; yet under the care of a young nobleman, immersed in
all the vices of the town, without one moral excellence, but such as
might result eventually from the influence of the moment—under such
care he trembled for her happiness—yet trembled more lest her heart
should be purloined without even the authority of matrimonial views.
With sentiments like these, Dorriforth could never disguise his
uneasiness at the sight of Lord Frederick, nor could the latter help
discerning the suspicion of the guardian, and consequently each was
embarrassed in the presence of the other. Miss Milner observed, but
observed with indifference, the sensations of both—there was but one
passion which then held a place in her bosom, and that was vanity;
vanity defined into all the species of pride, vain-glory,
self-approbation—an inordinate desire of admiration, and an immoderate
enjoyment of the art of pleasing, for her own individual happiness, and
not for the happiness of others. Still had she a heart inclined, and
oftentimes affected by tendencies less unworthy; but those approaches
to what was estimable, were in their first impulse too frequently met
and intercepted by some darling folly.
Miss Woodley (who could easily discover a virtue, although of the most
diminutive kind, and scarce through the magnifying glass of calumny
could ever perceive a fault) was Miss Milner’s inseparable companion at
home, and her zealous advocate with Dorriforth, whenever, during her
absence, she became the subject of discourse. He listened with hope to
the praises of her friend, but saw with despair how little they were
merited. Sometimes he struggled to subdue his anger, but oftener strove
to suppress tears of pity for her hapless state.
By this time all her acquaintance had given Lord Frederick to her as a
lover; the servants whispered it, and some of the public prints had
even fixed the day of marriage;—but as no explanation had taken place
on his part, Dorriforth’s uneasiness was increased, and he seriously
told his ward, he thought it would be indispensably prudent in her to
entreat Lord Frederick to discontinue his visits. She smiled with
ridicule at the caution, but finding it repeated, and in a manner that
indicated authority, she promised not only to make, but to enforce the
request. The next time he came she did so, assuring him it was by her
guardian’s desire; “Who, from motives of delicacy, had permitted her to
solicit as a favour, what he could himself make a demand.” Lord
Frederick reddened with anger—he loved Miss Milner; but he doubted
whether, from the frequent proofs he had experienced of his own
inconstancy, he should continue to love—and this interference of her
guardian threatened an explanation or a dismission, before he became
thoroughly acquainted with his own heart.—Alarmed, confounded, and
provoked, he replied,
“By heaven, I believe Mr. Dorriforth loves you himself, and it is
jealousy that makes him treat me in this manner.”
“For shame, my Lord!” cried Miss Woodley, who was present, and who
trembled with horror at the sacrilegious idea.
“Nay, shame to him if he is not in love”—answered his Lordship, “for
who but a savage could behold beauty like her’s without owning its
power?”
“Habit,” replied Miss Milner, “is every thing—Mr. Dorriforth sees and
converses with beauty, but from habit he does not fall in love; as you,
my Lord, from habit, so often do.”
“Then you believe that love is not in my nature?”
“No more of it, my Lord, than habit could very soon extinguish.”
“But I would not have it extinguished—I would rather it should mount to
a flame, for I think it a crime to be insensible of the divine
blessings love can bestow.”
“Then you indulge the passion to avoid a sin?—this very motive deters
Mr. Dorriforth from that indulgence.”
“It ought to deter him, for the sake of his oaths—but monastick vows,
like those of marriage, were made to be broken—and surely when your
guardian looks at you, his wishes”——
“Are never less pure,” she replied eagerly, “than those which dwell in
the bosom of my _celestial_ guardian.”
At that instant Dorriforth entered the room. The colour had mounted
into Miss Milner’s face from the warmth with which she had delivered
her opinion, and his accidental entrance at the very moment this praise
had been conferred upon him in his absence, heightened the blush to a
deep glow on every feature—confusion and earnestness caused even her
lips to tremble and her whole frame to shake.
“What’s the matter?” cried Dorriforth, looking with concern on her
discomposure.
“A compliment paid by herself to you, Sir,” replied Lord Frederick,
“has affected your ward in the manner you have seen.”
“As if she blushed at the untruth,” said Dorriforth.
“Nay, that is unkind,” cried Miss Woodley; “for if you had been here”——
“—I would not have said what I did,” replied Miss Milner, “but left him
to vindicate himself.”
“Is it possible that I can want any vindication? Who would think it
worth their while to slander so unimportant a person as I am?”
“The man who has the charge of Miss Milner,” replied Lord Frederick,
“derives a consequence from her.”
“No ill consequence, I hope, my Lord?” said Dorriforth, with a firmness
in his voice, and with an eye so fixed, that his antagonist hesitated
for a moment in want of a reply—and Miss Milner softly whispering to
him, as her guardian turned his head, to avoid an argument, he bowed
acquiescence. And then, as if in compliment to her, he changed the
subject;—with an air of ridicule he cried,
“I wish, Mr. Dorriforth, you would give me absolution of all my sins,
for I confess they are many, and manifold.”
“Hold, my Lord,” exclaimed Dorriforth, “do not confess before the
ladies, lest, in order to excite their compassion, you should be
tempted to accuse yourself of sins you have never yet committed.”
At this Miss Milner laughed, seemingly so well pleased, that Lord
Frederick, with a sarcastic sneer, repeated,
“From Abelard it came,
And Eloisa still must love the name.”
Whether from an inattention to the quotation, or from a consciousness
it was wholly inapplicable, Dorriforth heard it without one emotion of
shame or of anger—while Miss Milner seemed shocked at the implication;
her pleasantry was immediately suppressed, and she threw open the sash
and held her head out at the window, to conceal the embarrassment these
lines had occasioned.
The Earl of Elmwood was at that juncture announced—a Catholic nobleman,
just come of age, and on the eve of marriage. His visit was to his
cousin, Mr. Dorriforth, but as all ceremonious visits were alike
received by Dorriforth, Miss Milner, and Mrs. Horton’s family, in one
common apartment, Lord Elmwood was ushered into this, and of course
directed the conversation to a different subject.